by Cate Noble
“Not new, but someone I still care about. You’ve got to let me contact Gena.”
“I don’t believe this!” The scowl on Travis’s face deepened. “Since when have you been in contact with her?”
“I haven’t been.” Dreams didn’t count. “Not in years.”
“Then she’s just as likely off Tran’s radar—which is where I want to keep her.”
“What if Tran gets wind that the Thai government is looking for Harry and does some checking on his background?”
“Fine. I’ll get someone to check on Gena.” Travis turned to the other two men. “Now what are you waiting for? Get him out of here!”
Chapter Four
Harlan County, Kentucky
October 4, 1:25 A.M.
Mission incomplete.
Find Rufin.
Find Hades.
No! Find Max. “Remember our plan!”
Searing heat erupted beneath Taz’s skull. Wrong thinking always triggered a penalty. The painful pressure took out his sense of equilibrium. Then it cut off his vision with a suddenness akin to the earth collapsing beneath his feet. The sensation of free-falling in unending darkness nauseated him as his suffering expanded.
You will do what we say.
We control you.
He crashed on the roadway, tumbling head over heels. The asphalt stung him as it scraped his skin, but it was the jaw-busting blow to his chin that he welcomed. For with physical pain came clarity.
He felt his arms and legs twitch and realized he was having a seizure. In the middle of a bloody highway, for God’s sake! Roll. Roll.
Using the last of his dwindling concentration, he forced his body to move. First he flipped onto his back, then up onto his side and over. Blind and off balance, Taz prayed his movement was linear versus circular.
The pain in his skull spiked again, threatening to crush his consciousness. Don’t think. Don’t pray. Just roll.
The next time he became aware, he felt coarse grass and bits of gravel scraping his cheek. He was facedown in the dirt. That the ground was softer and more uneven confirmed he’d at least made it off the roadbed.
For some reason, dying in a ditch seemed preferable to being run over and smashed to smithereens by a tractor trailer.
He recalled the cabin he’d been holed up in the last few nights. It had appeared out of nowhere, replete with clothes, food, supplies. But how he’d gotten there was a mystery. Had he imagined it? Flickering memories of climbing out of a ravine and wandering for days didn’t quite fill in all the blanks.
Maybe he should have stayed at the cabin a while longer. It had been quiet and deserted. Except, the owner would have returned sooner or later. And the growing urgency to find Rufin allowed Taz no respite.
Mission incomplete.
Flipping onto his back took most of his strength, but this time when he opened his eyes he saw tiny pinpricks of light high above.
Stars. Billions of them. Crikey, when was the last time he’d even seen the night sky? Just admired it, lying softly beneath it?
A woman’s voice teased his ear.“And every night we’re apart, I’ll look up at the sky and think of you. Knowing you’re out there somewhere, looking up at the very same stars. Hurry home to me!”
Taz writhed as white-hot agony ripped down his spine like a glowing welder’s torch. The price for a memory of love was the worst.
Those memories aren’t real. Forget them.
Bullshit! He recalled the scent of roses and screamed as fire licked through his veins.
“Hurry home.”
It was too late. He could never go home.
Tears rolled down his cheeks as he surrendered his thoughts. Mission incomplete. The phrase played over and over in his mind.
Roger, Taz acknowledged when he finally regained some control. He needed to find Dr. Rufin in order to complete the mission. The problem was, he had no idea where Rufin was. The telepathic link between them was gone. Or broken.
Taz had a vague recollection of discussing a contingency plan with Hades, but whatever strategy they’d formulated was also gone. Unfortunately, the urge to follow through—find Rufin—had not abated. In fact, it grew stronger and carried the threat that to not follow through meant punishment for someone he loved.
The scent of roses. No! If they harmed her …
I will find Rufin! Even if that meant opening his connection to Hades once more, something Taz had actively resisted. The mixed messages he received from Hades—“I’m Max, not Hades. You’re Logan, not Taz”—were confusing and ultimately short-circuited his thinking.
So why the hell could he tune into Hades’ thought but not Rufin’s? Practice? He and Hades had done it for months. Had Rufin tested the connection more than once?
Doesn’t matter.
The fact was, Taz had no choice but to contact Hades. He needed Hades’ help to find Dr. Rufin.
Closing his eyes, Taz drew his awareness into his body, focusing on his breath first, then on his heartbeat, then finally on his individual molecules. He concentrated, sensing the electrical pulse darting between cells. On. Off.
And in that tiny space between flashes, he slipped free, to another level of mind.
Here, for a short time at least, Taz could direct and manipulate the thoughts of others. Most others anyway. He could also access a direct link to Hades.
Help me, Hades.
The message Taz sent was guarded. Not so much language as image. Sensation.
Hades’ response was swift. Strong. I’m here. Or rather, we’re here.
Taz realized Hades was with a woman. He opened his side of the connection fully, briefly, and sensed the fierce bond between Hades and this female. That Hades would risk hell’s punishment to love again astounded Taz. Instinctively he pulled away.
Wait! Hades called out. I can help you. Tell me where you are.
A sudden and overwhelming blitz of sensory data hit Taz, shattering the connection to Hades. Taz snapped back to reality, hyperaware of his surroundings. A car had slowed, pulled over.
He’d been spotted.
A woman, no two women, exited the car simultaneously and ran toward where he lay. The woman carrying the flashlight gasped and skittered to a stop. “I think … he’s dead.”
Taz raised his head and groaned, getting their attention. Both women scrambled toward him once again. They were young; college age.
He managed to perform a quick mental intrusion and learned the women were headed home, to Tennessee, from Eastern Kentucky University.
The blonde with the flashlight dropped to her knees beside him. “You’re hurt. Don’t try to move. Mary Anne can call an ambulance.”
“I’m fine.” Taz winced as he pushed up on his elbows. “Maybe a scrape or two, but nothing serious. Bet I looked like roadkill.”
The one named Mary Anne glanced around the highway. “What happened? Where’s your car?”
“I was hitchhiking.” Taz realized his blunder as the women exchanged uneasy looks. Both wondered why he was hitchhiking this late at night, on a relatively deserted highway. Then he caught an undercurrent of fear. Double crikey! Mary Anne had just seen a horror movie with that same theme.
“I’ve been backpacking up in Cranks Creek,” Taz rushed on. “But a bear wandered into my camp and demolished my tent, my sleeping bag. Everything. I decided to head back to civilization and spend my last few nights in a motel, but I sure picked the wrong road to thumb a ride on. The only car that came by didn’t see me. I jumped back, but he still clipped me with the fender and kept on going.”
“That’s hit and run,” the first girl said. Liz. Her name was Liz. “Did you get a tag number?”
“Nah. Too dark.” Eager to demonstrate that he was unharmed—and harmless—Taz pushed to his feet. “A hot shower will fix what ails me. That and talking to my girlfriend. Trip’s been miserable without her.”
Mary Anne and Liz both grinned, their relief evident. “We can give you a ride to the next town if you
like.”
Taz smiled. I like.“If it’s no trouble that would be great.”
Chapter Five
Edroy, TX
October 4, 4:15 A.M.
The whoop-whoop reverberation of another medivac helicopter lifting off into the night faded. Until a second one moved in, whoop-whoop, cleared to land.
Harry Gambrel had been lucky, pulling into the rest area not too far from Corpus Christi, just before the fiery, multicar crash closed the northbound lanes of Interstate 37.
Adding insult to injury, gawkers in the southbound lane had triggered a second, even more horrific accident that included two buses and a fuel truck. The fireball had lit up the night like high noon.
“Rubbernecking freaks,” he muttered, watching the scene beyond the crowded rest area’s parking lot continue to unfold.
Sirens wailed, indistinguishable from one another. According to news reports, traffic was backed up for twenty-plus miles in both directions. Harry could believe it.
Red and blue strobe lights flashed as far as he could see. Every cop, every fire truck, every ambulance in the southern part of the Lone Star state must have been there, which made him nervous.
That they were too busy to notice anyone in the rest area didn’t do much to help. He didn’t like being confined.
The whole thing reminded Harry of a scene from the Iraq War. He’d felt trapped back then, too.
Sweat beaded on his upper lip as he fought the flashback. Damn insurgents had moved in on the survivors of the ambushed supply convoy that Harry had hooked a ride with. Moving fast, Harry had scrambled over the wrecked Humvee to get behind a twenty-year-old Marine sniper.
Ramming a fresh clip into his nine-mil, Harry had prepared to take his own life. What the insurgents would do to a captured soldier paled in comparison to what a captured CIA operative faced. They’d skin Harry alive just to celebrate.
The sweet sound of an incoming air attack—twin Apaches raining hot lead, clearing a space so a Black-hawk could land—had sounded like angels singing.
Unfortunately, the ballsy Marine had taken a fatal hit. Harry had rolled the kid’s body away and kept on firing even though the insurgents had either fled or already been mowed down.
Harry had received credit for most of the kid’s kills, which had bought him his pick of assignments. The assignments had all basically sucked, but getting back on Travis Franks’s team had been Harry’s only goal at the time.
Back then those bastards got all the cushy jobs. When it came to connections, Travis Franks was rumored to have God’s ear. Returning to Travis’s fold had meant sucking up to Rocco Taylor—a bitter irony since it had been Rocco’s fault that Harry had gotten kicked off Travis’s team to begin with. One more strike against his “old buddy” Rocco.
The idiom that it wasn’t what you knew but whom had since become a guiding principle in Harry’s life. Cultivating connections and multiple backup positions over the years had served him well.
As yet another medivac helicopter lifted off the interstate, Harry peered through the blinds of his old Winnebago. At least he wasn’t stuck out in the un-moving traffic. He’d spent the last three hours in relative comfort.
He tried his cell phone again but got the “all circuits are busy” recording. Not too surprising. A disaster like this quickly overwhelmed cell towers. Chances were good his contact, Edguardo, was stuck out there in traffic now, no more able than Harry to get a cell phone signal.
And once he did hear from Edguardo, they would need to decide on another location to make the transfer since the rest area probably wouldn’t clear out for a while. Lifting an unconscious woman from a car trunk was one of those things that went better under the cover of darkness.
The good news was he’d worked with Edguardo several years ago and knew the Mexican mercenary was dependable. He’d stay the course.
Edguardo had two other advantages: one, he’d worked with the Rialto family, the powerful Ecuadorian drug cartel that had expressed interest in the exclusive right to produce SugarCane, a high-powered designer opium that the dope fiends of the world craved. The Rialto cartel had a reputation for honoring commitments, a rare trait among South American crime alliances. The Rialtos also had the cash to back up their promise to top any competitive bid.
Until recently, ’Cane had been available only through Minh Tran. Harry knew this because he’d supplied the drug to Tran. But not anymore. The supply line had dried up months ago and Dr. Rufin was the only one who could restock it. Since there was no repairing the hostility Minh Tran now felt, Harry was a free agent.
Once Harry recovered Dr. Rufin, again, and secured the formula for SugarCane, Edguardo could serve as Harry’s go-between with the Rialto cartel.
Edguardo’s second advantage was his unwitting status as a guinea pig. Edguardo’s failure to recognize “Bob Munson” as Harry Gambrel meant that Harry’s disguise was solid. A good plastic surgeon was worth any fee.
So, was Edguardo now stuck in that traffic jam outside or had he been unable to even get onto the interstate? Either way, he was probably even more pissed than Harry.
After twisting the top off his thermos, Harry refilled his mug. He blew across the coffee’s steaming surface before taking a sip. After years of choking down the strong, bitter brew that foreigners called coffee, good old Folgers tasted like nectar.
He kept the television muted as he flipped through channels, finally settling on ESPN to watch the replay of the Dallas Cowboys kicking San Diego’s ass.
In spite of its beat-up exterior, the Winnie’s inside was fully tricked out. For two hundred extra bucks, the RV’s previous owner had thrown in the illegal black box that unscrambled all the satellite channels and Internet.
Harry pumped his fist as Dallas scored a field goal. Lord, he missed living in the states! Two years of living and working in the cesspool called Southeast Asia gave one a whole new appreciation for all things red, white, and blue.
In fact, once Harry’s future was secure—beyond risk this time—he’d consider moving back to the U.S. Hell, maybe he’d keep the Winnie and pose as a retired RVer. Travel from Las Vegas to Atlantic City. The thought almost made him snicker.
“Can’t see me as a fucking snowbird.” Turning away from the television, Harry fired up his laptop to check e-mail again.
By running the black box’s cables through the customized junction box hanging off his laptop, Harry had added several layers of security to ensure his connections remained untraceable.
When his e-mail finally opened, however, he was disappointed to find no updates on Rocco Taylor’s status. The news that Travis Franks had indeed moved swiftly to forestall Rocco’s departure had been a relief. That Travis had taken things one step further by throwing Rocco into lockdown hadn’t been a total surprise either. Rocco was one ingenious motherfucker. Which was exactly the reason Harry needed his ass here in the states. Rocco was a fast pass to reclaiming Dr. Rufin.
Minh Tran had had the right idea for getting to Rufin. Kidnap someone Rocco Taylor cared about and let Rocco do the dirty work in order to rescue his lady fair.
In fact, Tran had actually inspired Harry’s current plan, though the similarities ended there. Harry was much smarter than Minh Tran. And Harry knew more about Rocco’s taste in women.
The scenario’s poetic justice hadn’t escaped Harry either. It was Rocco’s fault that Dr. Rufin was here to begin with. Rocco had gone in, guns blazing, and snatched Rufin from Harry’s associate in Bangkok, nearly killing the scientist in the process.
Sure, Rocco’s action had thwarted Minh Tran’s son’s attempt at seizing Rufin. If Tran had managed to get Rufin, Harry would be washed up.
So, while irksome, it was preferable that Rufin was in the CIA’s custody. At least now Harry had a chance.
Actually, Minh Tran had helped to keep the Agency distracted by kidnapping Madison Kohl-meyer. Harry had further contributed a little sleight of hand by leaking key information on himself to a CIA snitch. The
news that a third American spy was being held captive in Burma had sent the Agency scrambling to marshal its thinly spread resources.
Without doubt, the Agency had its hands full. The so-called war on terror meant nonterrorists were ramping up operations on all other fronts. The stats on money laundering, arms trading, and sex slave rackets had doubled. Which kept other law enforcement agencies busy, too, making it a little easier for Harry to move about.
What a contrast to nine days ago when Harry had first arrived in the states! He’d barely gotten off the plane when news broke that his partner in crime, pharmaceutical financier Abe Caldwell, had been taken into custody for his role in kidnapping Dr. Erin Houston.
On the heels of that fiasco came word that Dr. Rufin had disappeared from the hiding spot where Harry had left him in Thailand. Initially, Harry had panicked, retreating to the one place he’d sworn he’d never return: his father’s farm in southern Illinois.
Shortly before his death, Ephraim Gambrel had agreed to sell the place for its mineral rights. The sale would have made Ephraim a multimillionaire. But glitches in the paperwork meant the place temporarily sat in limbo while the buyer waited for new zoning variances and estate settlements. That his old man had left everything to Harry’s ex, Gena, still rankled.
With the estate unsettled, the farm sat vacant and untouched, which meant his old man’s fifties-era bomb shelter hadn’t been discovered. Ephraim’s paranoia, carried over from the Cold War, had provided a shelter that was kept well provisioned, too. Harry could have survived there six months, easy.
But a little quiet time quickly gave rise to a new plan. Sitting alone in that dank, concrete hole in a cornfield had helped Harry distill one simple truth: His Golden Goose was the designer drug recipes. If Harry could get to Dr. Rufin just long enough to make him cough up the drug formula for SugarCane, his future was set. The deal Harry had proposed to the Rialto cartel didn’t include future royalties. Just a onetime cash buyout that Harry wouldn’t have to split with anyone.